Nothing but a Soldier
by Bonnyellen
Summary: Dean would do anything to save Sammy. Volunteering for the hunger games was easy. He could hunt. He was strong. He would kill for his brother. One thing he didn't expect was Castiel. Brave, strong, beautiful, abandoned and broken. The problem with beautiful and broken things, is that you want to fix them. Cas had nothing to loose, until he fell in love with Dean. Destiel fic.
1. Chapter 1

Screams ripped through the quiet dawn. Within a heartbeat, Dean absently reached across the double mattress and pulled a restless Sam over the blankets, into his chest. The younger boy cried and thrashed wildly in his sleep, tears soaking Dean's nightshirt as he held Sammy against him - his head tucked neatly into the crook of Dean's neck - stroking his hair and soothing him, gently shaking the bundle in his arms awake.

"It's ok, Sammy, you're safe. Wake up Sammy... It's just a dream..." Dean curled his body around Sam's, as the bundle of messy, brown hair and long limbs began to shake violently, choking hiccups rattling in his throat when he breathed. Dean never slept with a duvet - a symptom of his childish claustrophobia, where he felt confined, unprepared - and hadn't noticed that Sammy had kicked the feather blanket off the bed in a fit of nightmares. The air was too cold, biting at his cheeks and draining through his skin, but whatever warmth he had left, he willed his body to give to Sam, shivering wildly against him, "Oh God, Sam... Wake up, please-"

"It was me, Dean," A small voice, trembling, cut in "They chose me." Sam's breath came out as a cloud in the frozen air, as he faultered, choking on all the words he didn't have to say. Dean understood.

He looked down at his younger brother ( his olive eyes pale in the hazy light spilling through the cracked window, flecked with gold and blue around the centre. Sam had once told him he had kaleidoscope eyes, and though he still had no idea what that meant, when people asked, thats what he told them) who's enourmous, soft, hazel eyes were glassed over with fear, eyelashes glinting with teardrops, like dew on a spider web. "It was me."

"I know, I know... but they won't. I swear it - your name's only in there once." Dean's whispers were muffled, his lips pressed into Sam's hair. Muffled with cold, fear, lies and determined protectivness. "And I wont let them. I swear it, Sammy. On any god, angel or demon."

Sam's laugh was twisted and sad.

"You sound like dad."

A vice clamped down hard around Dean's lungs, cutting off his breath, his eyes blazing with rage. A wall fell between the two brothers and they regarded each other in the faded light. Sam rolled away from Dean's arm, untangling himself, and lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling.

"There are worse people to be like." Dean's voice was barely a whisper, but it echoed through the room like a chant.

The Winchester 'den', on the outskirts of district 12, was too small and shadows danced in every corner of the two-roomed house. Books and weapons littered every clear space and a single bed wedged self-conciously into the corner of the second room, lumpy and hard. There was only one window, and in early mornings, the light bled through the sheer curtains and caught the specks of dust swimming through the biting, cold air, like golden snowflakes. In the summer the heat melted Dean's mind, and a haze blanketed everything in the 'den'. In the winter, the cold melted through you, no matter how many layers you wore, and small icicles crystalised at the bottom of Sam's hair. There was hardly enough space to breath.

But it was still too empty. Ever since their dad went missing on a hunting trip, a hollow heaviness bloomed throughout their home.

In his district - where children were considered adults at 16 - Dean had been allowed to live alone after his 17th birthday, and had moved from the district's orphanage into their famiily home, taking Sam with him. It worked... until he closed his eyes. He dreamt of his father, fighting of some beast in the woods, deadly and broken. And of all those years in the orphanage; stinging flesh, a blossoming slap mark colouring Sam's cheek, missed meals and ribs exposed under a thin layer of skin. And of this day. He always dreamt of this day, when Sammy turned 12. He always dreamt of the Reaping.

* * *

><p>Cas had always loved being up high. Where he was at the same level as the clouds and closer to the stars. It made Cas feel like he wasn't such a little thing, like he was worth something. The dawn was flaming, the sun casting psychedelic shadows over the mist as it rose behind the mountain. Castiel sat about halfway up the 'Nut', district 2 hushed and small and meaningless bellow him, hidden behind the fog. He hadn't always lived in the district, and the place was far from 'home', but he wasn't allowed to be angry. He had to bottle up the bitterness - bite back harsh words like a corked bottle - because he was supposed to be grateful. When his mom had died, his father had left. Gone. Abandoned. But not before he left Cas, squaling and wrapped up in blankets, on the doorstep of the 'Big House' - the mayor's home - in district 2. On his neck, just behind his right ear, was a faint, intircate marking of a pair of solid black wings. The only evidence of his true heritage. His 'birthmark'.<p>

Usually the Mayor Zachariah, a cynical, leathel man, would've dumped the baby in the nearest orphanage, but his son, Gabriel, held on tight to the little, darkhaired baby with the enourmous, sapphire eyes and inked skin. The two boys had grown up together, Gabriel sheilding Cas from everything and everyone that he could, because his little brother was different - too innocent. But more than that, he had a righteous understanding of what was good, mixed with a burning anger inside him that scared even Gabriel. A combination that would be more than dangerous to him. In a place like Panem.

Cas considered how grateful he was as he sat in the cold, morning mist. He was shivering, but he didn't feel cold, the collar of his long coat turned up around his jawline. The wind danced around him, whispering, ruffling his fine, dark hair and he closed his eyes, stromy blue and watering from the sting of the cold. He hadn't slept all night, but he didn't feel tired; his muscles cramped from sitting in the same position for hours, his eyes hooded, thick eyelashes heavy and casting shadows over his cheekbones, darkening his eyes. But his mind felt sharp and intense, like the gleam of a knife.

He watched, wrapped up in his cream-coloured coat, as lights began to blossom in the town beneath the mist and mountains, as children woke up screaming from nightmares, only to find reality was worse. Parents bustling about absently at the crack of dawn after a sleepless night, wondering if this would be the last time their child sould sleep in their own bed.

The joy of the Games.

Stumbling down the side of the 'Nut', the largest mountain in his district and the centre of the Capitol's defences, Cas trembled with anticipation, light seeping through the valley now, disintergrating the mist, burning it. At the bottom of the mountain, he weaved gracefully in between the heaves of people already huddled in the square. The podium was alight, piercing lights shining from every corner of the square, and on the stage the mayor squinted out at the crowds of children; 12 year olds crying, enourmous eyes and tear stained cheeks. 15 year olds huddled in groups, cowering away from the blinding stage lights and the capitol seal. And even girls and boys, 18 years old, glowering defiantly up at Snowdrop - the district 2 escort, a ditsy young girl, so made up she looked about 40. Feeling completely lost and helpless, he wove his way to the back of the square, invisible and hating himself for not being brave enough to make a difference. Year in year out, he stood by and watched children be shuttled off to the capitol, and very few came back. He watched them fighting in the arean, clawing for food and freezing to death, and he watched fhe bloodied bodies and gleaming swords. Only one more year, and he'd be free from the reaping, but never of the games. Never of the Capitol.

With a heavy sigh, Cas looked up from his feet, at the screen on the stage - which had began to play propo's sent 'all the way from the capitol' - flickering with images of fire and rebellion, tributes and victors. The entirety of Panem, in every district, watched that Capitol's, short film bought, holding their breath, suspense choking them, and listened to the rough voice narrating. A voice that Cas remembered long before he heard it, that sent shivers rocketing around his body, the way chalk on a chalkboard did...

"Welcome! Welcome! Happy 94th Hunger Games and may the Odds Be Ever in your Favour..."

* * *

><p>Thousands of miles away, a scrawny, adolencent boy sat in the presidents manner. He was born and raised in the capitol, always full and well dressed, blissful unaware. It was his first year working on The Games, and though he hoped to become head gamemaker some day, he was quite happy sitting smugly in that enourmous house, a humming camera rolling on his shoulder, as he recorded the President of Panem speaking to the world, a pair of electric blue eyes gleaming back at him through the lens.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

In the heat of district one, a girl with blonde curls and a glint in her eye raised her hand above the crowds of children lounging in the centre. Brandy - the district one escort - hadn't even finished her over-rehearsed speech, and simply sighed, wishing she had a bottle in her hand somewhere far away from these bloodlusting kids. Putting down her cards, she nodded curtly down at the older, blonde girl with daggers gleaming behind her blue eyes, and lent her a hand as the girl sashayed up the stairs and onto the stage.

"Our first volunteer! What's your name, dear?"

With a smile that could've broken glass and outshone the sun, the girl replied;

"Lilith."

* * *

><p>"And as ever, ladies first!" The district 12 escort, Jubilee - a burly, tall man with tattoes snaking over the crest of his bald head and a permanent scowl - had already began his announcment by the time Dean and Sam stumbled into the square, panting from the cross country run from the 'den' to the square. The boys didnt eat everyday - not many people did in the district - but due to a restless night, Dean had been up at dawn, and off to the woods to hunt them some breakfast. But without any way of telling the time, he had lost track of it, and by the time he got back, Sammy was waiting at the door, with his only nice shirt on, caramel eyes axious. They had skipped breakfast, and soared across the fields to the town, Dean still dressed in hunting gear and caked in mud, clinging desperately to Sam's hand, pulling him behind like a ragdoll. When the boys had raced into the square a peacekeeper, masked and armed, had yanked Sammy away from Dean, pricked his finger, and hustled him into a fenced area crammed with younger boys. He felt like a cow being led to the slaughter house, surrounded by a sea of defiant faces and terrified eyes. He couldn't see his brother, but he knew, somewhere at the other end of the square, Dean was shoving his way through, trying to get to him, as Jubilee purred his scripted introduction.<p>

As his enourmous, heavily decorated hand decended into the glass bowl full of names - girls he went to school with, who he bought food from, who remembered his name, who smiled at him - a deafening silence blanketed the rabble of kids and parents in the square. A heavy quiet.

Snowdrop's violet lips formed a name - one Cas was not entirely focused on - and a girl, fiery hair plaited across her elvin face and such dark eyes, like burning coals, tripped up the strairs, grazing her tear-stained cheek. He didn't recognise her, but wished he did. Wished he could've know the girl with the pixie like face, and the nighttime eyes. Wished he could've spoken to her, and known what made her laugh, because he didn't need to know what made her cry. He could see. Wished he could've listened and remembered her name.

It didn't matter. She was as good as dead anyway.

Wound up in his own thoughts, Cas looked up from the floor - from the dust his boots kicked up - and realised every pair of eyes in the square were trained on him, expressions ranging from relief to pity. From the podium, the redheaded pixie looked down at him, her marble eyes glassy with tears and burning with anger. The same rage that trembled inside everyone in the districts. Everyone who had ever been hungry, or lost someone in an pointless accident or illness. Anyone who had ever been abandoned or orphaned. He saw it in her eyes, because it mirrored the anger that blazed behind the blue of his own eyes. Snowdrop stood on the other side of the raised paltform, a manufactured smile plastered across her meretricious features, and a second scrap of paper pinced between perfectly manicured blue nails. Her eyes sparkled down at Cas, and she offered a hand down to him, a gesture that turned his blood so cold, it boiled.

Scrawled across that piece of paper, in swirling caligraphy, were two word. His name;

Castiel Novak.

* * *

><p>Back in district one, Lilith giggled delightedly as a fight bloomed into existance on the boy's side of the plaza, as two brothers graplled mercilessly to get onto the stage first. Her eyes rake over both boys, one slightly older, but weaker. The younger one, with the honey brown hair smiles up at her, his eyes warm and full of promise... as he smashes his brother's - Michael, yes that was his name - head against the paving stones. With a grunt, Michael rolls onto his side, cradling his head ad fighting back tears. They had always been so close, two brothers taking on the world together. Nothing was more important than money. Excpet riches. Except the Games. Except power.<p>

Moving from his brother's drowsy, limp body, the younger brother moved with silent grace through the crowds, (who even though they parted for the new tribute were not in the least bit surprised at this show of violence and eagerness to volunteer) and marched up the steps, his dancing blue eyes never leaving Lilith's, a vortex of cobalt. A small smile played across her lips as he took his place next to her, his hand grazing softly the small of her back, his breath hot on her ear as he whispered over the top of the cheering crowds;

"Of course you'd volunteer, wouldn't you Lilith?" They stood, looking down at the kids in district one, Brandy still ranting pointlessly on, her voice only just loud enough for his ears as she replied.

"23 kids going to burn in hell, and me and you are the first to sign up. Yeah, sounds about right..."

"Speak for yourself Lilith." From the corner of her eye, she could see his smile: manic and dangerous.

"Not place in hell for you Lucy?" She smirked "Or are you just that confident-"

"Oh I might not be burning with the rest of you, but there's a place alright" He cut in, smooth as silk. "It's called the throne."

* * *

><p>Jo. The tough girl. The girl who cheats. The girl from the Hob. The girl all the boys want and all the girls want to be. Jo.<p>

Jo, who had only had her name in the reaping ball 63 times. Who was only just 16.

The square seemed so much bigger as she pushed her way through the crowds and made her way to the stairs. She hadn't realised how much weight stares could carry until she was the focus of hundreds of them, her name still ringing in the silence. Chin up, she told herself, taking the stairs two at a time, pointedly ignoring Jubilee's outstretched hand. She refused to owe these people anything.

The first year of the Hunger Games Jo remembered was the year after her father died. She had only been 7, but still she remembered watching the black and white hologram, fuzzy and tiny, at the back of her mother's bar. They had sat together in the pub, adamently refusing to go to the square, and watched a boy who had been sitting on one of the barstools the week before walk up onto the stage, head held high, before being carted off to the capitol with a one way ticket. He never came back into the bar. Jo only hoped she looked as proud and defiant as he had when he was reaped, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she stood on the stage next to her escort, letting it fall down her back, a waterfall of golden curls. If she was going to go out, it would be with a earthshaking bang.

Nobody cheered. Nobody cursed. Nobody contadicted or disagreed. Everyone just stared up at her, like they were trying to remember how she looked, moved and was. Even Jubilee, with his wild, amber eyes, watched her silently for a matter of seconds, forgetting his place. The silence was crushing. From across the courtyard, her mother's eyes glowed with hatred, meeting her gaze with a tearfilled intensity that reminded Jo that she was raised by fighters. Raised to fight. Raised to loose everything and come back hard.

Then, with a shuddering, pointed thump, Jubilee marched across the stage, eyes flying everywhere but her, and thrust his hand into the boys reaping ball. He didn't seem to notice the hundreds of venemous glares devouring him. Maybe he just didn't care.

Every boy on the right side of the square, subconciously choked on their own breath, caught halfway down their throats. Silence erupted throughtout the district's centre, like a bomb seconds from exploding.

Three... Two... One...

* * *

><p>"Sam Winchester."<p>

* * *

><p>Boom.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

When Dean had shot his first doe, on his first hunting trip with his dad 9 years ago, he had only nipped its hind leg. Not nearly enough to kill it. Intead the beautiful, chesnut beast had gone into a shock, forgetting how to breath, falling over its own feet in a wild panic to escape. As it lay on the blanket of snow, wheezing and suffocating in it own confusion, Dean's dad had taken the knife, and did the only kind thing he could've done. Red blood bloomed over the perfect, white ground, the doe's eyes open and glassy, her body ridgid and cold. He hadn't wanted to, but Dean watched the whole thing, the metallic taste of blood bitter in his mouth and tears choking his throat. Then his father stood up, turned to him with scarlet splattering his shirt like paint and emotionless eyes. Dean turned and ran as far as he could, because he couldn't face anyone. Not Dad, or Sammy or anyone. He shivered inside a hollowed out tree until the next morning, crying for the first time since his mom died, the image of the doe choking on her own fear singed into his eyelids.

Dean hadn't undertood what it was like to drown in your own fear until Sam's name was called.

He had been slicing his way through the crowds as Jubilee rambled aimlessly, but as his little brother's name was read off the cards, the world span and sizzled, and he stumbled before the shivers started rocketing around his ridgid body. Children around him steadied him and held him up, but their touches were like a burning numbness as he scanned the crowds desperately for the skinny, longlimbed boy with the shaggy brown hair. Towards the front of the square, crowds parted as little Sam Winchester, wide eyed and shaking, made his way toward the podium, waiting for someone to speak up for him. But Dean's voice just got lost in the silence.

* * *

><p>Anna Milton's hand was soft and pale. Her fingers laced with Cas' were long and elegant, as she gently squeezed his hand, though she seemed adament to not look at him. Her blazing, dark eyes looked out at the crowds gathered below them, but Cas was determined to not even acknowledge them, instead studying Anna's jawline. The way it tilted upwards, like a swan craning its neck to see futher up the river. It was tradition for the two tributes to shake hands, but he and Anna kept their fingers locked together, the pressure of her palm anchoring him to home. Unimpressed applause drummed through the square, customary even though noone in the district held out much hope for the pair. Neither were anything extraordinary. Then they were being hustled into the justice building, the roar of the crowd dulling to silence with a click of the heavy, marble doors. Anna was ripped away from him by peacekeepers and escorted into one of the conference rooms, probably identicle to the one he was shoved into. He rolled his eyes as the head peacekeeper told him he had 10 minutes to say goodbye to any visitors, attempting to mask the dissapointment the coursed through him, telling himself Gabe had better things to do than see him off.<p>

Instead he sat on the plush settee, memorising the craveses in the stone floor, the beams on the ceiling, the patterns of the mahogony furniture. The distorted hum of voices came from the next room, a muffled sob that could only be Anna's sister, Tash. Cas was too numb to care. To numb to be sympathetic, or angry, or even jealous.

It swallowed him, his emptiness. All the fire, all the talk about wishing he could make a difference, all the hatred fizzled out like a light and he just couldn't find it in him to feel anymore. He was going to die. And it wouldn't mean a damn thing. He had never realised how long 10 minuted could be, but after a few forevers, the door opened and Snowdrop's sparkling eyes smiled down at him from the doorway, her hand frantically gesturing for him to follow, her purple hair bouncing around her face as she span on her heel. Cas cautiously stepped out the empty doorway, hoping weakly that Gabriel might come sprinting up the stairs, shouting 'I need to say goodbye!'. Instead he found a older girl with long red hair holding desperately onto a shorted girl with a short, aubern bob, the same burning eyes as her sister. Cas flicked his eyes away, feeling like an intruder, not part of this moment, a swelling nothing aching inside his chest, until Anna caught his eye over her sisters shuddering form and fresh tears clouded her eyes. She nodded once, untangled herself from Tash - 13 years old and utterly alone - and whispered a final goodbye in her ear. Cas stepped forward as Anna straightened and stepped away. Shoulder to shoulder, the two tributes marched out of the justice building. Anna didn't turn back once to see her little sister huddled in the empty doorway, and Cas didn't want or need to say goodbye to district 2. Wherever Gabe was, Cas hoped he was fucking miserable.

The train station was buzzing with activity and too many faces, but they weren't given the time to speculate. Peacekeepers surrounded them on all sides like a forcefield, moving too swiftly for Cas to get a good look at who had come to see the train leave. Then he was boarding the train, and on the final step, he turned around briefly, telling himself it was for closure. In the warms of people, Cas almost could've sworn he saw a familiar pair of golden eyes, like sunlight through a gla of whiskey. The the door slammed shut and the train purred, roaring to life. Anna, Snowdrop, their prep team and Cas jolted and jostled as the train shuddered into a steady pace, taking them out of the district, toward the Capitol.

Out of the frying pan. Into the fire.

* * *

><p>The crowds moved around him, like a stream around a boulder. Dean wove his way through the kids, toward the front of the square, without barely a brush of a arm or a slifght nudge. The he was out of the huddle and standing in the aisle, looking up at his scawny little brother halfway up the step of the dais, big brown eyes deep and scared.<p>

"Sammy?" His voice broke on the second syllable, all the eyes on him making him stutter with nervous anger. "Sammy. Sam, no..." Peacekeepers swarmed around him, bees to honey, and pushed against him as he tried to move forward. In a sort of daze, he threw some of his rage at one. There was a stinging in his knuckle, and blood colouring a peacekeepers split lip, but he didnt stop to ponder the consequences.

"No, Stop. I volunteer! I volunteer..." The peacekeepers parted, and Dean stared defiantly up at the strange array of people standing on the stage. Green eyes flickered in the dawning light, burning with hate. "I volunteer as tribute."

Sam flung himself down the stairs and into his brothers arms, his head buried into Dean's chest. When he looked up, his eyes were wet, but not sad. They glowed like the embers of a fire, and Dean knew then that it would be alright. He refused to fade out. If he was going down, he was going to burn. He untangle himself from his brother, except the interlocked fingers, and together the made their way up to the stage.

Jubilee didn't say anything about Sam's being on the stage, and when his eyes met Dean's, a small glimmer of something similar to pride glittered in them. Everyone in district 12 stared up at them, and after 6 seconds, a girl near the front, raised her fingertips to her lips, and then held them to the sky. After another 3 seconds, everyone in the square had 3 fingers held above their head, thousands of eyes glaring proudly, defiantly up. The girl was no one either Sam or Dean knew - they didn't know that her brother had died in the games 3 years before, simply because people refused point blank to sponsor him. Or that her mother had died of cholera before she had even been old enough to partake in the Games. Or that her father had been paralysed from the waist down after a mining accident. They didn't know anything about her. Not even her name.

All they knew was that she was on their side.

Dean stared out at the square, not really seeing the crowds, missing his father and burning from the inside out. Sam's fingers, laced with his, anchored him to sanity.

* * *

><p>The heat in district 7 was enough to drive a man crazy. Heat rays rippled over the heads of the crowds below Chuck, as he stood up on the podium, considering how much longer it would take for him to flip the switch from sane to insane. He wished he could've been a bit more memorable, but it was too late for him now, unless he wanted to backflip of the stage and ninja kick his mentor, Zachariah, in the face mid air. That second part sound tempting...<p>

...Yes he was definitely going crazy.

He realised now that only the exciting, entertaining people got sponsored, and he was about as interesting as a full stop. He felt marginally better that when his district's female tribute had been called, she hadn't created some oscar winning performance or inspired awe with her bravery or even turned on the water works. They had both been equally dull, and the citezens of the Capitol will have already switched the channel over to a more inticing reaping.

Just when Chuck thought he would start speaking tongues he was so hot, he and his fellow tribute were promptly ushered inside the justice building. There was a hustle and bustle as peacekeepers locked the door and took their coats, shielding them from the murmurs and shouts coming from the district's square. People were unhappy. People wanted justice. People wanted to play their own games. Then the peacekeepers marched off and the two tributes were alone. It was the first time Chuck really looked at her, the girl he was going off to fight to the death with.

She was younger, maybe 14, with dark hair bouncing off her shoulders and ebony, eager eyes. She was petite, but he could see she was probably a better fighter than he was - though that may have been damning with faint praise. Slender arms flexed with fine muscles and she held herself like a hunter. She was a fighter.

Bloody good for her.

"What's your name?" Her voice was crisp and light, light autumn leaves, breaking him out of his reverie.

"Chuck...Chuck Shurley." He tried to smile, lighten the mood, but he felt like there was a black hole looming over their heads, sucking out their former lives slowly. "What's yours?"

"Gwen Campbell." Her nightime eyes slickered over the cold, stone, entrance room of the justice building, before coming to rest back on Chuck with a newfound determination, like remembering who she was helped her be stronger. Chuck wished he had that kind of affect on himself.

"Got anyone coming to visit you, Gwen Campbell?"

"My uncle, Sammuel... He'll come and see me. Give me some last minute advice... you know, that's what family does. Help." Her voice wavered and Chuck didn't blame her. The truth was, he didn't know, at all.

A hour or so later, they were moving at a hundred miles an hour toward the city Chuck had heard so much about and hated so much. The train was smooth and silent, but every slight, non-existant bump, Chuck felt in the pit of his stomach. The forested, wild landscape of district 7 began to fade in the distance, and the view out the window became dull and baron, but he had nothing better to do. Gwen was also in her tempory room, and he had absoloutly no inclination to go and sit in the lounge with his repulsive mentor, or boring, simple escort. So he just watched the landscape change as he sped further and further away from his home.

Gwen's uncle never did come to say goodbye, and even though Chuck didn't ask, she just told him that it was because she was as good as dead to him anyway. And the worst part was, was that Chuck couldn't find it in himself to blame the guy for it.

* * *

><p>Crowley smirked to himself, more and more the further he got away from district 5. Stupid git's hadn't known a thing about real power, his district's supposed industry. The food on the train tasted better than anything that had ever passed over his lips, and they didn't mind him drinkinig red wine. The girl who came with him had already shuffled off, snivelling and snotting off to her room, tears sticking her eyelashes together. He supposed if he were afraid to die, he would also probably sniff and snot, but he wasn't so he let himself smirk and feel superior. He bit back the little, timid voice whimpering at the back of his mind, takiing another bite of the creme scone. But the unrelenting whisper rattled around his skull like a loose screw; <em>'you're going to get skewered Crowley. You're going to die. You're going straight to hell...'<em>

Tapping his fingers across the tabletop, and blinking a few too many time, Crowley told the voice to shove it. But the little whisper continued to flutter around his head like a annoying insect

_'You're going to hell. You're going to hell. You're going to hel...'_

_'Of course I am.'_ He told the little voice.

_'I've got a kingdom to run.'_


End file.
